Masters at Arms (22 page)

But the Marines had turned Damián into a fine
young man. One anyone would be proud to call son. Adam certainly
would continue to think of him as his son until the day he died.
Even if Damián wasn’t looking for a replacement dad.

* * *

Would the ache ever go away?

Karla plucked a tissue from the box in her
lap and stared at Ian’s photo lying beside her on the
burgundy-velvet antique settee. Every day for the past two months,
she’d fought to accept and understand Ian’s death.
Fail
.
She’d lost the ability to function on a day-to-day basis. Last
night, she’d been fired from the club.

Escape. She looked around her Soho loft, the
place where she’d lived since college. Five of her college
roommate’s oil paintings dominated one wall; their vibrant colors
usually able to cheer her up. Not tonight.

She should be singing at the club. Ian had
come to hear her perform whenever he was in the city. With the
bright lights blinding her up on stage these past two months, she’d
often imagined him sitting there in the front row, smiling up at
her. But when the show was over, she realized he hadn’t been there.
Would never be there again. Then last night, she hadn’t even been
able to walk onto the stage as she was hit with a full-blown panic
attack.

She’d never frozen like that.

Last week, her contract with the record label
had fallen through. She just couldn’t concentrate long enough to
write anything new. With her career sufficiently down the tubes,
she needed to get away from the city and regroup. But where could
she go?

Her parents kept trying to talk her into
moving back home. She knew they needed her, but being in the house
where she’d grown up with Ian was too painful. Every time she
passed his room or stared at the empty chair at the table, she’d
think of him. Her chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. No,
she couldn’t move back there.

Maybe a visit to her college roommate’s
mountain cabin would help. She usually showed up at Cassie’s in the
fall when the aspens were so beautiful. Her gaze moved to the
painting of a stand of the trees with their yellow-gold leaves
nearly quaking against the off-white bark. Karla remembered being
with Cassie last year as she created the painting.

The artwork complemented Karla’s
mix-and-match style furniture. The wooden dining table with funky
chairs of aspen yellow, azure blue, and crimson. The bar with its
vinyl-covered red, green, and blue lunch counter stools. No one
could accuse Karla of being dull when it came to colors. Well,
except for her wardrobe.

And yet, the joy she usually felt here was
gone. Even the few walls of the loft were closing in on her. She
looked at the bookshelf where Adam’s framed photo in his dress
blues had been displayed proudly beside Ian’s portrait ever since
she’d moved into the loft.

Adam, I need you.

Few days passed since that Thanksgiving
weekend without some thought of Adam. Her heart still ached with
images of his kneeling down before her in the bus station’s ladies
room as she cleaned up the wounds he’d received trying to protect
her from harm. Memories of his arms around her had infused her with
the strength and courage to return home and face her parents.

The sight of him half naked in her parents’
kitchen in the wee hours of that Thanksgiving Day had made an
indelible mark on an impressionable, young girl’s mind. The corner
of her mouth lifted in a half smile. No man had ever measured up to
Adam; not that she’d really seen many men without their shirts.
She’d focused solely on building her career.

And now that was gone. Tears welled in her
eyes.

The few letters he’d managed to write while
deployed also were among her most prized possessions, along with
the printouts of Ian’s e-mails. Neither was a prolific
correspondent, but she understood how busy they were. But after
Adam retired from the Marines, he’d kept in touch with a letter
every month. In recent years, he’d even e-mailed her. But she
preferred the letters. More personal.

Adam had surprised her when he told her how
much he loved listening to the music she’d sent him while he was in
Fallujah. She’d hoped to send him a copy of the professionally
mastered CD of her Gothic rock love songs. But that wasn’t going to
happen now.

Adam had always sent her a bouquet of roses
dyed neon pink for her birthday, reminding her of that awful hair
color she’d had when she met him. She smiled. He always seemed to
have a genuine interest in what she was doing and wanted to make
sure she was okay. He’d check to see if she needed anything. Offer
advice whenever she’d asked on matters small or large.

Mostly small matters, she realized now. She
hadn’t been able to tell him about Ian.

Guilt plagued her for not responding to his
last two letters. Karla couldn’t find the words to tell him about
Ian’s accident. Tears stung her eyes again. She grabbed a tissue
and blew her nose.

Go to Adam. He can help.

Karla needed Adam more than she’d ever needed
anyone before. With nothing left to hold here her in New York, she
picked up the phone and booked a red-eye flight to Denver. She’d
find some small club where she could sing that wouldn’t be as
demanding as the one in Soho. Just enough to help pay the bills
while she licked her wounds and healed.

Karla pulled out her suitcases and started
packing. She’d keep the loft for now, until she knew what she’d do.
Maybe she could sublet it to a friend. Only a few possessions would
go with her, though. The two bundles of letters. Her performance
costumes. Copies of the CD she recorded last year. Everyday
clothes.

She placed Ian and Adam’s framed photos
safely inside her carry-on bag, wrapped in one of the long gothic
dresses she’d wear for auditions and, she hoped, performances. No
way would she risk losing their photos if something happened to her
luggage. Three years of living in the loft and everything that
meant something to her, except for Cassie’s paintings, fit neatly
into two suitcases and a carry-on.

She made out a check to the landlady for
two-months’ rent to hold the apartment, just in case things didn’t
work out in Denver. Then she called a cab and closed the door on
her independent life in New York City.

Karla hoped she’d be able to find Adam once
she got to Denver. She only knew his e-mail address and his Post
Office box number. She’d reply to his last e-mail once she got
settled in Denver.

* * *

Damián listened as the metal band’s lead
singer spewed his gritty lyrics. He wasn’t sure the band was quite
what the club needed. Not that any of the others he’d heard
audition this afternoon were any better.

His mind wandered back to his talk with Adam
last week. Adam had pulled his bacon out of the fire in San Diego
back in 2005, when Damián had been just a day or so away from
putting an end to his sorry life.

Plain and simple—Adam saved his life.

Damián cleared his throat, then noticed that
the offensive music had stopped. He looked up at the stage and saw
the lead singer waiting for a response from him. When had they
finished playing?

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch soon.” The rote
response rolled off his tongue after an afternoon of horrendous
auditions. As the band packed up its equipment, he looked down at
his appointment sheet. He had a few minutes before the next
audition.

Since coming to Denver, he’d managed to put
memories of Savannah, and all the pain she’d caused, behind him.
When he was awake, at least. She still intruded on his dreams, but
at least she was a better night visitor than the images from
Fallujah.

Damián still couldn’t believe he was a Dom
now. He even found himself enjoying some of the scenes with the
submissives he was training. But he had to rein in the beast in
those scenes, for fear of hurting someone—well, someone who didn’t
want to be hurt, anyway. There were some nights he just had to
decline a scene because he knew the rage was too close to the
surface.

Of course, being the resident sadist, all the
masochists found their way to him at some point. Even with them, he
only indulged if he knew he could keep himself from going too far.
Nothing compared to the euphoric high he got when he was in
hyper-vigilant Dom space, tuned into the sub’s every breath, every
gasp, every scream.

But, since he’d started working with the
submissives in training, he’d learned he still knew how to please a
woman without inflicting severe pain. While it didn’t do anything
for him sexually, he’d long ago learned that sometimes it wasn’t
about him.

Working at the club also gave him plenty of
time to pursue the other things he loved, too. He’d been hired at a
local Harley shop several years ago and finally had managed to
fully restore his own classic. He never felt freer than when he was
on his hog. When the physical therapists had told him he’d be able
to ride again, they’d given him the motivation he needed to get his
ass in gear and do what they told him to do.

He heard the door open behind him and turned
to watch as a tall, slender young woman approached. He hoped she
could hold his attention better than the last performers had.

“Come in, Miss…” he looked back down at his
sheet, “Paxton. I’ll give you a few minutes to get ready. If you
have a background disc, just put it in the sound system over
there.”

Damián watched her prepare. Her long, wavy
hair hung loose to her waist and she wore a medieval-looking dress
with pointed sleeves. Her low-cut front exposed the inner sides of
her breasts. No bra. Interesting look, although he’d like to see
even more skin if she performed in the club.

Hell, at this point, he just hoped she could
sing. So far, they hadn’t found anyone he’d want to hire. He looked
back at her e-mailed resume. Her background indicated she was way
overqualified. What was a Manhattan club singer doing in a small
weekend private club like this one? Maybe she was like him, just
needing a new start. Or maybe she’d lied on her resume.

When he glanced up at her again, he watched
her bite her lower lip. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the
room—homing in on the unconventional furniture, complete with
chains and manacles. Hadn’t she understood what the ad in the
alternative paper meant by a private club? If she thought the room
looked wild now, she’d never make it through a night of debauchery
this weekend.

Then she noticed him watching her. He
continued to stare until she became uncomfortable and looked down
at the floor. Shy? Or submissive?

It would be interesting finding out.
Interesting indeed.

* * *

Karla nibbled at the inside of her lower lip.
What kind of club was this?
She’d been so rushed
to request an audition when she saw the online ad while waiting for
her flight at LaGuardia. She really hadn’t paid much attention to
the reply other than to get the address and time right. With her
flight delayed, she’d changed into her costume in-flight, which had
been an interesting feat. She’d barely arrived in time for the
audition.

Karla looked around the room. She’d never
seen anything like this place. A private club. For what? Or did she
want to know? There was a full bar and stage area, right in the
middle of someone’s house. And the furniture! A few tables and
chairs were scattered about, but what caught her attention were a
number of ottomans positioned around the stage—each with manacles
and chains attached to them. Talk about a captive audience.

A center pole in the middle of the house’s
great room sported several thick eye bolts—and more chains and
cuffs of varying heights spaced at regular intervals. Along the
wall were any number of implements of torture whose purposes she
didn’t even want to think about.

She cast nervous glances at the Hispanic man
in the Harley-Davidson vest sitting at a table between the center
post and the bar. While he studied her paperwork, she noticed that
his shoulder-length hair was pulled into a ponytail. His moustache
and goatee gave him the look of a—well, if she needed to put a word
to it—“sadist.” Or what she’d imagine a sadist would look like.

Then he looked up at her and his black eyes
bore through her, causing her stomach to drop with a ka-thunk.
Unsettling. No longer able to maintain eye contact, she looked down
at the floor. Maybe she should run while she still had the
chance.

No. She needed this job. She looked up again,
but her eyes gravitated to the center post first. Her stomach
quivered, sending a jolt to her clit.

Oh, my!

“Miss Paxton?” Her attention returned to the
intimidating man. When he stood, she realized how tall he was.
Almost as tall as she remembered Adam being, although even Adam
probably wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She was only about
five-six when they’d met. Everyone looked tall to her then.

“Are you ready?” His voice was stern. No
smile. Would this man be her boss? Would she be able to work with
someone who put her nerves on edge like he did?

Well, it’s not like you have a lot of
options
. The market for Goth singers was pretty small,
especially in an isolated city like Denver.

“Y-yes.” She drew her shoulders back. Why did
she feel she should bow down before him? Lord, he intimidated
her.

“I’m Damián Orlando, one of the owners of the
club. Just call me Master Damián.”

Her hand shook as she adjusted the microphone
to her height.
Master
Damián? What had she gotten herself
into this time?

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

He smiled as if satisfied with her response.
Why did the thought of pleasing him seem so important to her?
“Begin whenever you’re ready.”

She walked over to the sound equipment and
queued up her music. When she returned to the mic, his intense gaze
sent butterflies into frenzied flight inside her stomach.
Shoot!
She missed her queue.